


Crown of Winter

by Khione_North



Series: Kingdom of Winter (Fae AU) [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Biting, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Clawing, Dark Consort G'raha Tia, Dom/sub, Excellent Use of the Fae Language, F/M, Faesexual, Light Bondage, Mating Bites, No betas we die like Ascians, Rough Sex, Soulmates, Titania WoL, Very rough sex, but mainly porn, some feelings, soul bonds, will write for coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26329960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khione_North/pseuds/Khione_North
Summary: “Did you know,” the King hums, turning to run long, sharp claws along the strong line of her consort’s jaw, “that in the ancient folklore of these lands, there existed a mighty winter queen?”The Consort nips at her fingers playfully, a wicked smirk curling on his desperately unkissed lips.  “Oh?  Do tell me more, my [dearest heart],” he purrs.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: Kingdom of Winter (Fae AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917046
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	Crown of Winter

“Did you know,” the King hums, turning to run long, sharp claws along the strong line of her consort’s jaw, “that in the ancient folklore of these lands, there existed a mighty winter queen?”

The Consort nips at her fingers playfully, a wicked smirk curling on his desperately unkissed lips. “Oh? Do tell me more, my [dearest heart],” he purrs. 

The King tilts her head as she leans back to lounge further across her throne, eyeing him from her side vision. She is both predator and prey to him and she knows it. She is testing him just as he is testing her, a battle of wills between two opposing forces. He wonders if their kingdom will survive the storm.

She reaches up to continue running her talons along his hooded face — she has long since memorised every ilm of his body, the same way he has committed her every curve and plane to his own memory. 

“They called her Cailleach Va Beira, and she guarded the Veil between the living and the dead.”

“Mmmmm,” he muses, catching her hand in his to press a kiss to the back of it, then leaves a trail of them up her arm in silent promise. “Shall I start calling you my Cailleach, then? Perhaps that is the name I shall chant while I move in you, a prayer in my every thrust, the song I sing when I fill you with my seed again and again until you’re fit to burst, [crown of winter].”

He does not fail to notice the shiver that runs through his mighty, beautiful King, nor the way her answering words are thick with want and lust.

“Perhaps we should see how that will work out for you, [dark heart].”

She does not have to repeat herself.

With the preternatural grace and swiftness possessed solely by the Fae, he scoops her into his arms, nipping and suckling on her delicately pointed ear. It coaxes little gasps and moans from her that only serve to fuel his need for her.

In the safe haven of their bedroom, he is king and master, and she his plaything. 

The Consort throws his King unceremoniously on the bed. A snap of his fingers has vines of aether wrapping around her wrists and ankles, tying her to the grand posts of the canopy. She is spread out before him, wrapped in scraps of lace and silk like a child’s present on Starlight. He cannot wait to unwrap her.

As a man, he prided himself on his patience, willing to wait centuries for this delicate creature to stand at his side once more. As Consort of the Fae, he has all of eternity to make her wait. It is only fair.

He sits on one of the comfortable armchairs by the grand marble fireplace, just watching his King writhe against the bindings holding her in place. She snarls and calls all manner of curses upon him, her threats hollow and endearing.

“Now, now,” he tuts, crossing one knee over the other to rest his crystalline elbow upon it, propping his chin on the upturned palm of his hand, “ask me nicely, [crown of winter], and perhaps I’ll find it in my heart to be merciful.”

The King whimpers, but she is too stubborn to start begging… yet. 

And so, he waits. He busies himself with removing his own layers, making a show of undoing each clasp and belt and button slowly, teasingly. His cock stands tall and thick, curling ever so slightly towards his stomach, and so hard that it is nearly painful. Returning to his chair, he takes himself in hand, his gaze never leaving her as he pleasures himself. He knows it’s working when he notices patches of frost beginning to bloom around his beautiful King. 

He cannot wait to utterly ruin her.

It doesn’t take long before his patience pays off.

“P-Please,” the King mumbles. The Consort notices that she has started squirming. There is a wet spot on the bed from where her arousal has seeped through her gown — she doesn’t wear smallclothes anymore, not when he has a habit of pleasuring her in the throne room whenever the fancy takes him. 

With an insufferable swagger, he crosses the room, standing a few feet from the bed. A snap of his fingers has the King’s bindings disappearing.

“Are you prepared to behave yourself for me, [little King]?” he purrs, beckoning her over.

She crawls to the edge and rolls off the bed to land in a small heap at his feet, staring up at him with molten silver eyes that remind him of the stories she once told him of learning to blacksmith in another lifetime. Her gaze is pure subservience and submission, begging for an order.

Who is he to deny his King?

“Kneel,” he commands, reaching down to grab her by the hair. He pulls her to her knees, forcing his weeping cock in her face. “Look at the mess you’ve already made, [little King]. Clean it up with your mouth.”

He gives her no time to react beyond opening her mouth before he thrusts his cock between her lips, stopping only when his balls, hot and heavy, hit her chin.

“That’s a good girl~” His purring rumbles through his chest, but he has only just begun.

She does not yield without a fight. Although the Consort is very much in control, the King allows herself to play, to tease, to remind him of who wears the crown. Every bob of her head is accompanied by sharp teeth scraping gently along his silky length, and she makes sure to bite down on his head every time he tries to pull himself out of her mouth completely. He responds with feral snarl and a sharp tug on her tangled tresses just before thrusting back into her mouth with enough force to destroy a mortal. Good thing she is no longer so fragile.

He gives her no warning before he stills and releases, his howl echoing through her very bones. She drinks him down greedily, trying to savour his salty taste. He does not let her for very long.

He is already hard again by the time she stands on traitorously trembling legs, her own arousal running down the inside of her thighs, hot and sticky, the smell filling the room like roses dying at the end of autumn. It has them both intoxicated.

With surprisingly gentleness, the Consort picks his King up and sets her on the bed, leaning in to steal a chaste, loving kiss. It is all a game, the eternal dance between his fire and her snow, a line that, even twisted as they now are, they both tread carefully for fear of destroying the other. She is the light to his dark shadows, the cold found in the eye of the storm that is his every blazing emotion.

The peace does not last, not when he pounces on her. His pupils are blown wide, his cock weeping with pre-release once more.

She cries out in earnest when he sinks his fangs into her neck, possessive and claiming and vicious, just as she likes him. She responds in kind, sinking her own claiming bite at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, lapping up his blood. More, more, _more_. His blood sings of roaring wildfires and a lover’s embrace before a glowing hearth in midwinter, and it sends her mind into an all-out frenzy that has her shredding his back and shoulders with her claws.

“Did I say you could do that?” the Consort growls, ducking his head to steal a kiss from his little Ice Queen. She moans when she tastes her own essence — fresh snow and pine trees and steel and magic — on his lips, and she swears in many multiple languages that she could come from that alone, until she feels his cock, thick and hot and heavy, nudging at her core insistently.

“I daresay you’re going to have to punish me,” she titters, giving him her most charming smile.

He plays right into her hands, entering her in a single, bruising motion that has her seeing stars. She reaches up to his velveteen ears and pierces the delicate skin with a nail. The Consort snarls against her mouth, biting down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw more blood.

Thus, do they begin the grand crescendo of their dance, drawing all manner of lewd prayers from each other as their bodies collide in a violent gale that leaves them both wondering where one begins and the other ends. Their very souls are intertwined, eternally bonded as King and Consort, and these moments of pure, primal passion serve as renewed vows each and every day.

His love is jealous and possessive and feral, his only desire to fill her with his every onze of adoration so that she will always remember in her icy, frozen heart that she is _his_ and his alone.

Her love is wild and unyielding and explosive, and she brands him as much with her claws and body as she does with the way she sings his name like a songbird. _“Raha, Raha, Raha~”_

She climaxes first, ice and snow billowing out from her hard enough to leave the Consort covered in deep cuts and welts from where he has been struck by icicles that cut like the sharpest of knives. His name is a banshee’s wailing song that dances on her tongue and tumbles from her lips like the _kyrie_ at a Halonic mass, and it leaves her exhausted.

The Consort takes a little longer, his thrusts frantic and violent as he chases his love toward oblivion. When at last he finds it, shadows bloom like dark fire, caressing the King with heartachingly gentle hands while he roars and snarls her true name, biting down on her beautiful, snow-pale breast to leave one last mark. _“Khione, Khione, Khione~”_

When at last, after what seems like an eternity, he finishes filling her with his love, he pulls out of her and collapses at her side, leaving them both satisfied yet cold.

It is the most natural thing in the world for them both to seek warmth and solace in each other’s arms, both bleeding and sticky and content.

The King and her Consort sleep peacefully that night in their giant room in their giant castle. The balcony doors are open, and the sentinel stars watch over them as they rest. Perhaps they would appreciate the beauty of such things, were they not too busy appreciating the beauty of one another, two lost souls finally found home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii! Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Please don't forget to leave a comment or drop me a message!
> 
> If you're a writer and/or reader of FFXIV fanfiction, and you want more awesome content, come join us at Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Book Club! https://discord.gg/ShMwvS
> 
> -Blue


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